


Visions are Seldom All They Seem

by w3djyt



Category: Kamen Rider Gaim
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-29
Updated: 2014-07-03
Packaged: 2018-02-06 18:07:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1867422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/w3djyt/pseuds/w3djyt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryouma has plans.</p><p>Takatora could do without them.</p><p>Post Episode 35 request fic: "Ryouma saves the day ... for love and science."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Know it's True

**Author's Note:**

> For [Alive A Life](http://alivealife.tumblr.com/) who requested "ryouma saves the day ... for love and science."
> 
> It might not be exactly on point, but Ryouma isn't exactly the most mentally stable scientist these days.

Ryouma had plans.

Well, that was a bit like saying the sky was blue (but only on Earth and only at the moment), but somehow it seemed even those closest to him routinely forgot this. No matter: if you can fool your friends, you can fool your enemies, after all! And he was certainly fooling Takatora as much as he was fooling himself. It had been far too easy to watch him fall for Ryouma to be anything other than complicit in his own delusions.

 _Plans_ , they were plans.

Still, plans only worked so long as you followed them through. Minato would go a long way towards that. Mitsuzane perhaps not as much. Still, Ryouma wasn’t concerned. His favorite piece hadn’t been removed: he was just safer now. Takatora was too noble for his own good. Too close to martyrdom and far too willing. (The belts were all designed for him _for a reason_ , after all. He could have Minato: Takatora needed something better).

Takatora would be fine. He was too invested and too damn honest to die. The same nobility that caused him such weakness would ultimately keep him alive. What kind of scientist would he be, after all, if he wasn’t good at taking the terrible and creating something great from it? The man had his weaknesses, but even when they brought him low, they just made him shine that much brighter. Yes, Ryouma could work with that – had been for most of his life. That was what let him make his plans. It wasn’t just any human you could build such a magnificent future around. Takatora was different – always had been. Ryouma was sure he could make something truly awe inspiring from him, even if he had to remake him in the process.

Sometimes you had to break things to make them stronger, after all.

So when Takatora made it back to Earth (returned from the depths of Helheim like Odin of old) Ryouma was only happily surprised by the presence of _both_ eyes. Yes, good. He could have fixed that too, of course, in time, but that wasn’t something he had exactly budgeted for. Depth perception could be worked around for the sake of ascension and he was losing time. Ah, but the man _was_ broken, and that was perfect. Not by him – Takatora could never be broken by him, which was why he ultimately had to bring in others – but by the humanity he’d so nobly tried to protect.

Was it any wonder why he, more than any other, should be granted the grace and power above all men?

Zawame was a wasteland of fear and aggression. He’d stayed clear of the missiles in his own way (obviously, Takatora would not be struck down by such paltry attacks), but once the threat had passed and the world again tumultuously debated on more drastic measures even he wasn’t entirely sure would be neutralized quite as easily (the fabric of existence did not change between the dimensions – physics remained intact between the two realms – he’d tested plenty to know that well enough), he stepped in once more. Broken was good, but it wouldn’t do for him to lose his research subject before the experiment was complete!

Timing, of course, is everything, so he watched and waited as Takatora did what he was bound to do. Always looking for the best, even when he had no reason to believe it still existed in someone. Of course, he would chase after Kazuraba. Even Ryouma held some interest in Kouta, though he remained a side project: someone only of interest due to the forest’s focus upon him. Kazuraba was not a concern, but the people surrounding him were. People Takatora would eventually confront: like his brother.

Another broken piece.

Ryouma remained indifferent to Mitsuzane even now. He’d once held a bit of amusement to see the child playing a game he didn’t fully comprehend, but it was all too clear now that the game had well and truly broken him in ways Ryouma had no interest in meddling with. There were good breaks: clean ones that could be fused together again and made stronger. Mitsuzane’s fractures were numerous and erratic, and when he finally broke, it was like a bone through skin. (Inevitable infection, not easily set, never completely overcome).

Takatora was already fusing back together. Mitsuzane was good for that much, at least. He was the pressure that forced the stronger, more difficult bond out of the elements his brother had become. The elder was wounded still (the Sengoku driver had not been made to heal damage – there had been too many beta testers to include _that_ in the specs), and did not have the upper ground in technology either. His technology adorned them both, and though Ryouma held pride in his work, it wasn’t his best any longer, and he disliked seeing it rest on the unworthy shoulders of a pretender to the throne he had made for another.

He wasn’t worried, however. He had chosen melon first for a reason; had made the belt to Takatora’s specifications for a reason. They were all made for him, of course, but this lockseed had been the first, because for all he enjoyed remaking nature, it had millions of years on him and any scientist worth his salt should have known to take advantage of that. Ryouma did and had. Melons were naturally defensive, and easily manipulated to that end. The Sengoku driver – the first to bring his experiments to life – fused those natural elements into something stronger: something better than it would have been alone. Mitsuzane had the offensive power, but Takatora was shielded, smarter, and reforging under the pressure of the gauntlet before him.

The flutter in his chest was scientifically unsound, but nothing new.

Still, Takatora was not _complete_ (couldn’t be: Ryouma hadn’t completed him just yet), and the end of the match, no matter how favorable, left him in a pile of screaming nerves, torn muscle and rent flesh. That was fine, yes, all well and good; he was repairable now, malleable like hot iron in a forge. Now was his moment. Ryouma swept in unnoticed, for no one even knew to look, and finally retrieved the last and favored piece of his research.

“… Ryouma…?”

The pain still fresh in Takatora’s voice had nothing to do with his wounds, and any lesser man may have been moved. Ryouma wasn’t a lesser man (he would be so much more soon, but later, after Takatora and his research were complete), and the shiver that went down his spine from finally hearing his name from those lips again was one of pure bliss. Excitement exited in a gleeful little giggle as he hauled the shocked man to the side and away from the forge that had burned away the last of his imperfections.

“Ryou-ma-“ Again, now with anger seeping in, surpassing the weakness in his form to almost – almost shake himself free, but Ryouma gripped harder, and yanked an arm over his shoulder so he could bury his face in the crook of Takatora’s neck with a happy little hum.

“Not yet,” Ryouma murmured, inhaling deeply to draw in the scent he’d spent so long without. Too long for him, but necessary all the same. Let it not be said he never did what was _necessary_. “Soon-“

“Soon what-?” The cough that interrupted was dry, though he could feel the whole of Takatora’s broad frame shake with it. Good: nothing in his lungs. Probably out of breath from the way he was being dragged off, and judging by the shift in his weight, and the half stumble that followed, some painkillers would be in order to make it through the hammer and anvil to come. “Ryo-“ Another cute, but useless struggle to pull away when his body was clearly in no shape to fight. Ah, Takatora’s stubbornness would see him through even now when it tried to pull him away. “What-“

Ryouma shifted again, nudging a broken rib to force a sudden, shaky inhale and allow him an easier time of moving Takatora’s larger form without quite as much trouble. Plans. He was already a little behind from having to wait so long. (The Kureshima line, as a whole, seemed incapable of knowing when to well and truly give up, but that was something he could work around).

“Soon,” he promised again, a smile on his lips as he finally leaned Takatora against a wall and with another, pleasant little hum eased him down to the ground, where he sat still in a daze of confusion and pain. “You used to be very good about schedules, you know, buuut I can forgive setting me back this oooone time,” Ryouma teased, even as his attention turned to the nearby supplies and decisions to be made. Treat, repair, reforge, or something else altogether? Well, he did have other appointments so very soon: painkillers would probably have to wait for the moment. Takatora wasn’t going to go into shock.

Probably. Well, he had a lockseed for that, anyway.

Takatora swayed. Ah, that wouldn’t do.

“Ryouma-“

Even now, Takatora couldn’t keep him at a distance. That tender honesty soaked him to the bone. Bottle selected, Ryouma filled the syringe with the easy finesse of someone far too familiar with the action to bother taking his gaze from the vision Takatora made. Some would say the man was marred by injury: bloody, bruised, with anger and pain in a distrustful gaze angled up as he still struggled to keep himself upright and alert. All Ryouma could see before him was a man unmade: a being on the cusp of being made anew. There would be nothing more beautiful than this until he was completed.

“One more nap, I think.” The hum never quite left his words, even as his smile broadened. Ryouma bent over with an easy flair, sticking the needle into the jugular vein and injecting its contents in one, smooth motion.

Takatora didn’t even flinch from the pinprick so common to their testing over the years. “What are you… doing?” The struggle to force his words out was clear on his face, even if the pain and anger in his gaze seemed dulled as it pressed on him.

“Consider it a ‘welcome home’ present!” Ryouma chuckled, wiggling his fingers down at his companion as the drugs kicked in and made his eyes droop. He dropped into a crouch, gratified to see Takatora’s gaze following even as the rest of his muscles slowly went lax from the sedative. Long fingers curled up under a battered jaw, tipping it up in a bid to hold Takatora’s attention until it drifted away entirely. “You never did get enough sleep, ne, Ta-ka-to-ra?” He slipped a finger up to the side of bruised lips to tap out each syllable, smirking when the motion caused dark eyes to widen one last time.

Giddy excitement pressed their mouths together just before Takatora passed out, and Ryouma lingered after to swipe a tongue over damaged lips once more. They used to be soft and unblemished, but coming back from the dead made them chapped, cut, and bruised. It left a spot of blood on his own, lapped up as he swiped his thumb over the bleeding cut. He stood again, slowly, as the building thrill of an experiment nearing completion washed over him, and pressed the thumb to his lips as well to linger on the taste a moment more.

Still Takatora, but even now the stamp of melon remained.

Still Takatora: still _his_.


	2. That Gleam in Your Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because [Alive A Life](http://alivealife.tumblr.com/) requested a follow up with a shirtless Takatora and I am a fan of that.
> 
> Takatora is the only thing Ryouma is ever sure of and getting to put his hands on him for a little while again is a bonus.

Someone had once told him that the times you are the most certain were the times you should be the most unsure. Ryouma’s not sure who said it, or even if it was said to him. Maybe it was in a book, or from a movie (perhaps even that one corner of his mind constantly failing to reign in the rest), but he remembered the words at the most inopportune times. When he was giddy and gleeful and flush with new knowledge. When he found something no one else could explain. When he knew something no one else did.

Those probably weren’t the right times to be reminded of something like that. Logically, he should have thought of the words seconds after a failed experiment. Should have remembered the warning as he thumbed through old reports, making notes in the margins that were half kanji, mostly equations and scribbles of chemical bonds. It wasn’t so much about failure, though, and so the timing of his memory failed spectacularly among the successes of his knowledge. If it had been about failure, Ryouma would have been intimately aware of those words at all times.

Failure came with the territory; advancement required failure and Ryouma was just as good at failure as he was at discovery. Understanding failure was what separated a good researcher from the mediocre, after all. Ryouma had never had an experiment merely _fail_ : that would gain him nothing. He always tested as if there weren’t any limits. His failures came in plumes of black smoke, screams, and lightning as much as they did blinking error messages that somehow managed to shutdown half the security systems in Yggdrasil. At times, his failures even included expense reports that could rival small countries. When that happened, he wouldn’t see Director Kureshima for a few days afterwards.

Then he was back.

Takatora always came back.

It was something Ryouma had learned not to question. It was one of the only things Ryouma did not question. It was (probably) the one thing Ryouma should have always questioned. ( _Always_ be unsure, but he never really listened to himself.)

“… You tried to kill me.”

Ryouma smiled, enjoying the tingle in his fingers from where the low vibrations of Takatora’s voice seeped from skin to skin. “Didn’t I, though?” The tilt of his head as he pulled his hand back was birdlike and inquisitive.

Silence again as Takatora glared at him when he could have at least tried to move. (It would have been more interesting, at least, to watch him struggle. He always looked best struggling.) The stillness of the moment was broken when Ryouma stood from his crouch and turned back to his makeshift metal tables now holding the mossy green tangle of used bandages and the dirty strips of black cloth that remained of Takatora’s jacket. A soft little hum accompanied the professor’s light and energetic movements once more, and he plucked a colorless lockseed from the table with an easy flick of his wrist.

“What do you-“ Ah, there, a nice, familiar tension gathered in the trapezius and sternocleidomastoid when Takatora instinctively shifted. He stopped short, however, when the flexion of core muscles actually seemed to work and straighten himself, dark gaze flicking instinctively back up to the scientist, by habit if nothing else, expecting both explanation and unwarranted attention.

Ryouma never was one to pass up an opportunity to admire the buildup and release of tension in any part of Takatora, but his chest muscles in particular were a favorite of his. He let out a wistful sigh and knelt down again, catching a shoulder and easily forcing Takatora back against the wall again, no matter how the man struggled to bring a hand up to stop him. “Feeling better~?” he hummed, and leaned in closer, eyes bright and entirely too intent on what was before them.

“Ryouma-” Takatora wasn’t quite able to repress the surprised jolt stemming from the press of the lockseed in Ryouma’s other hand to the inside of his thigh.

“Ah, so you _can_ feel that already,” Ryouma chuckled, slowing his hand to fully enjoy the way tension struggled to return to awakening muscles with the aid of adrenaline. Fight or flight was one of those fundamental instincts Ryouma most loved observing in his subjects. Takatora had always provided an interesting study of it, and now was proving no different. It wouldn’t be much longer that he could physically restrain the larger man without transforming or applying another sedative. At the moment, however, there wasn’t enough time for the latter and his plans required something a bit different from brute force.

“Stop this. What are you -?”

Ryouma slid his hand from Takatora’s shoulder to his sternum instead, pushing back again as his other hand drifted higher, causing the man beneath him to tense up all the more. He could feel a still strong (stronger, now) heart racing beneath his empty hand. Fear? His eyes flicked up from where they had slipped to tense pectorals (whoops!) to catch Takatora’s expression once more. Ah, no. His smile broadened. Fight. Yes. Perfect. Failures were all well and good, but _success_ … that was a drug like none other. (The break with reality without losing the details, the foresight and understanding. No haze, no misunderstanding. Bliss, just bliss.)

“Tell me…” He leaned forward again, holding Takatora’s gaze firmly now, so he could see every miniscule reaction when he slid the lockseed up to the outdated belt still resting atop tense abdominals. His hands itched with the urge to brush over them (again), but the slight widening of those dark eyes held his attention as the lockseed clicked into place. “… are you hungry, Takatora?”

It locked. Dark eyes lidded and a shuddering breath escaped still chapped (but no longer cut, no longer bruised) lips as the effect of the lockseed spread nourishment and energy through an already healing body. A soft groan followed and the only thing keeping Ryouma from covering those lips with his own once more was the anticipation of an answer. (Research first. Always. Always put knowledge first.)

“… You know… I’m not,” Takatora eventually sighed out, lax for mere moments before hungry lips descended on his own. Instinct told him to jerk back. Emotion won out instead. Anger and betrayal and something else; something that still hurt shoved him up and gave him the strength to finally (finally!) raise a hand and claw at the back of Ryouma’s skull, dislodging his hair tie and yanking him down sharply. It wasn’t so much a kiss as a violent gnashing of lips and tongues and teeth; a lot more teeth and heat than anything else that tore them apart and cleaved them together again between desperate pants and withheld groans.

The sudden shock of pain from a roughly bitten lip was what finally broke Ryouma’s concentration enough for Takatora to drag him off by a fistful of hair and, ah, if that wasn’t _nice._ He should have fight back, probably. There was a good chance the drugs hadn’t completely worn off yet, and Ryouma was a good deal scrappier than he let on. Even the little effort it took to just hold him down by weight alone was written clearly in the delicious tremble of muscles strained just trying to keep Takatora _up_. Soon that tremble will fade to strength again, though, and the reminder was enough to make Ryouma shiver from tip to toe. A hand raised before he could even catch his breath, but somehow Takatora (brilliant, determined, _angry_ ) managed to catch it by the wrist, and a laugh bubbled up into the space of their shared breath.

A shaky shove followed, and for a moment he thought Takatora beyond words as the hand in his hair wrapped around to his throat instead. They were close enough already that the action caused their belts to clack hollowly against one another, and Takatora jerked up then, forcing the breath from Ryouma’s lungs as he twisted to grab at the Genesis driver instead of flesh and blood. Ryouma’s hips jerked up with the fierce yank that finally ripped the belt from him and oh if those aren’t going to be entirely too pleasant bruises later. Still, the movement threw Takatora off balance and it would be such a shame not to test that sudden resolve.

 _How far does it go_?

One well aimed kick was all it took to knock the driver out of Takatora’s grip, but, surprisingly, fell short of letting him roll out of the way. Even with his attention momentarily shifted to the driver, Takatora’s reaction to his attack was fast enough to catch him by the shoulder and shove him back to the ground, this time face first and with the lockseed on Takatora’s belt shoved into his lower back. Ah, that was kind of nice, actually. Another, short laugh escaped, and he pushed up in spite of the awkward way his arms were folded beneath him and the painful way his neck bent when Takatora tried to push him back down again.

“So happy to see me~?”

“ _What_ did you do?” the words are delivered in a low growl directly into his ear, but there was still a tense shiver in his muscles no matter how he tried to tamp it down.

The adrenaline and the lockseed are mixing better than he’d hoped, and all Ryouma can think of are the instruments still on his table he could be using to measure that particular success. How much had changed since they last saw each other? What the physiological difference had that sort of extended exposure led to? (His last test subject had eventually lost his kidneys, but there were too many variables to really account for, and anyway, they weren’t the same. They never would be.)

“Mm, before or now?” Ryouma’s grin widened and he twisted just enough to catch sight of Takatora leaning over him, no matter the painful angle it forced on his neck. When the hand on his head didn’t relent, he put a tally on his side of the mental scoreboard. First the creepy little brother, and now him. Honestly, he could get used to this level of success. “Well, I suppose it’s the same either way, isn’t it?”

“You _shot me_ and _shoved me off a cliff!_ ” Takatora was still more bark than bite, but that didn’t make the shove that came with his words any gentler.

“Technically, _Sid_ shoved you off the cliff-“

Oh, that was going to leave a bruise. He spit out gravel and tried pushing up on trapped arms again, to no avail.

“You tried to have me _killed_ ,” Takatora said, reverting back to the same low, almost-growl that used to be a sign of exasperation more than anger. It was almost sweet, really.

Ryouma couldn’t help laughing at the sheer absurdity of that dulled anger. At least his hold hadn’t loosened. “And yet… here you are.”

The stillness that settled over the body pressing him down spoke for far more than the silence left in the wake of his commentary. He could practically hear the gears whirring above him as his words went unanswered. (Takatora was never slow, even compared to him: merely angled in the wrong direction. He could fix that. He knew he could.) Ryouma carefully pushed up again, but no, the vice like grip remained, and this time Takatora slid up further to dig his knee into the small of his back.

“Don’t…” There was a strange tone in Takatora’s voice. Somehow not anger, but neither hope, nor fear. Ryouma’s fingers itched for a keyboard and the devices needed to pull readings for pulse and blood pressure and neuroactivity. Another low huff of breath, and apparently some decision was reached, because the next thing he knew the weight and pressure were gone. (And warmth, Takatora was so much _warmer_ than he remembered.) “Don’t try to justify it to me… ever.”

Finally free to roll over again, Ryouma was quick to push himself to his feet, brushing gravel off the side of his face still tender from being shoved into the ground. A faint smile slowly replaced his grin as he watched Takatora, already several steps away, retrieve the Genesis driver from where it had landed. “You wear that so much better than your brother, you know,” he openly teased, gaze eager and bright when Takatora removed the Sengoku driver and set the other over his hips instead. Ryouma crossed his arms in front, supporting the right with his left to affect a familiar, musing pose that allowed him to tap a finger over his lips. “Is it my turn now, then? Ah, the lockseeds are all over _here_ , of course…”

His eyebrows climbed when Takatora simply spun on his heel and marched right back over, unceremoniously shoving the older driver into his chest and forcing him to catch it or let it fall. He stepped back instead, just to see what would happen, but the hand on his coat was quicker and dragged him forward again before the driver could finish clattering to the ground. Then Takatora’s hand was in the pocket of his coat and ripped away again before he could even properly get a hold of the man’s arm to prevent it. (Was that adrenaline still, or perhaps some form of endocannabinoids?)

**_Melon Energy!_ **

Ryouma’s lips twisted into a wry smirk, eyes immediately cast upward to the zipper splitting the world above them. (Much better.) He made a show of removing his hands and stepping back with a mocking bow. Even still, concern was the farthest thing from his expression when he dropped his gaze back to Takatora’s. Mm, yes, it had definitely been one of the more well thought out details in his plan not to switch out his driver juuuust yet. It may not have been hesitation, exactly, but he could tell from the stance and set of his jaw that Takatora had no inclination to simply take him out. It would be worrisome if not for the prior fight with his own brother. Ryouma’s plans needed to be followed to the end, anyway, and at this point that still included getting the fruit on his own. Takatora may be easily capable of fighting people who had personally done him wrong, but Ryouma knew better than to think that resolve would extend to anyone else in his way.

“Abandoning me to the forest as well?” he nevertheless jabbed, just for the sake of watching Takatora’s reaction.

**_Lock On._ **

“Don’t you think…” Takatora rested his hand on the handle of the belt, staring him down with a heat somewhere between affection and torment, “I know you better than that by now?”

**_Soda!_ **

**_Melon Energy Arms!_ **

There was that tug again, somewhere deep in his chest. Chemical reactions he could rattle off like a nursery rhyme to explain away his quickening pulse and the heaviness in his lungs. (It wouldn’t change the fact that Takatora was the only one that caused it. It was the first thing he had tried to change and nothing had ever worked. Takatora was just different. Better. No matter how he tried to deny it.) He didn’t look away or try to move when the bow was drawn, the glowing arrow of his own creation pointed straight at him until released at the last possible moment, colliding violently with the remains of pavement several feet in front of him.

Ryouma didn’t have to wait for the dust and smoke to clear to know Takatora had left. Instead, he turned for the metal tables briefly jostled, but otherwise entirely spared destruction that would have at least made things more difficult for him. It didn’t matter either way, but it allowed him some leniency in his schedule. A soft hum began anew, almost without his consent, and he chuckled at his own excitement showing through as he milled about his makeshift lab for the last pieces of his experiment.

Takatora might have left earlier than anticipated, but he’d gotten enough data in the meantime. Mentally reforged and properly armed, he would be a forced to be reckoned with long enough to stay alive and distract shared enemies. Besides, Takatora would come back when he had the fruit.

Ryouma was certain.


End file.
